Ilar: A Cinderella Story
by Sarra Alcatsol
Summary: The story of Ilar portrays that of a Cinderella who never knew her father or her mother, but was simply set aside and raised in her own home as a servant.


-Chapter 1-  
  
Ilar opened her eyes. She drew a trembling hand across her forhead again, the nightmares were steadily growing worse. She rolled out of her little cot, and slipped her feet into her rag slippers. She'd made them, they were beautiful she thought. Or, if they weren't they beautiful she pretended they were. She shuffled across the bare wooden floors to the crystal window. She looked out into the dark night with her large brown eyes.   
  
Moonlight bathed the back courtyard of the elegant HeartStread manor. It flowed over the trees and trimmed walks as silk under a wealthy woman's hand. Ilar sighed and folded her arms to keep some kind of warmth in her body. From the position of the stars, and the gray edge on the eastern skyline visible from her wondow she saw it would be less than an hour until MacRoy, the house's head of staff, came in to shake her awake. Ilar sighed and turned back to her little cot. She slipped in and opted to leave her slippers on, for extra warmth. The threadbare blue coverlet was designed for a lady's lap robe, not to keep body warmth in for someone who should be sleeping.  
  
Ilar tried to summon sleep back to her, but the vivid pictures flooded back of her recent nightmare.  
  
The was a man, tall and proud. His skin was as milky as the early morning sunlight, and his nose spoke volumes about his station in the world. Clinging to his arm was a dark girl. Her hauntingly big brown eyes searched the face of the man she was with. He looked down at her, and showed such a smile of warmth and comfort, that even Ilar was comforted. She watched forlornly as the two strolled past her, into the thronging streets of Criod, her hometown. Ilar panicked, she didn't want to lose the couple in the teeming bands of people. She slid and slithered her way through the crowds, just like MacRoy had taught her when she was three. She came to a crossraods, one had people dressed in brilliant blues and violets. Their calming colors lured Ilar to follow them. The other by-way contained a mass of reds and golds. The people shot Ilar sly looks down their noses. Ilar took a step towards the blue street, until something caught her eye in the reds. A tall black hat. She eyes lit up and she sprinted after it, knowing it was the man.  
  
As she ran she leapt occasinally into the air, only a few feet, but she would dangle there, waiting for that glimpse of the top hat. It bobbed and weaved, always slightly ahead of her, and she landed with great ease and skill, then began her trek again. She jumped again, and did not spot the silk hat. She fell to the ground, dissappointed and lost in a crowd of miserable people. She needed that couple, they had something she wanted. Something she required. Ilar stifled a cry as a rough hand yanked her from the air, and from the dream she'd been remembering.  
  
MacRoy pulled again, "Get up, I tell ye. But no, ye've got to sleep in. I swear, if it wasn't the Lady's orders ye stay here... I don't know what I'd do to ye."  
  
Ilar blinked in the bright sunlight pouring in her room by the gallon full. "What time is it?"  
  
"Time? When'd ye start carin' 'bout the time?" Something was obviously upsetting MacRoy, he was never this cross in the mornings.  
  
"Mac? What is wrong?"  
  
MacRoy sighed, "Lady's got it into her head to have a feast here. And I'm not sure what to do with ye."  
  
"To do with me?" Ilar's voice was strangled with confusion. "What do you mean? Do with me?" She questioned again.  
  
"Lady doesn't desire your company at the feast."  
  
"Lady never has." Ilar said, knowing full well why Lady Olivinia never wanted Ilar near her and her 'guests'. She was afraid Ilar might have a slip of the tongue, but this fear wasn't ungrounded. Ilar blushed as she remembered the reason.  
  
"Ye see what she be wantin' now. Don't ye?" MacRoy said, nodding knowingly at Ilar's blush.  
  
"I've never upset any of her guests though. He was family."  
  
"That count was going to give Lady a good chunk of money, ye know it."  
  
"I know it." Ilar sighed, wishing MacRoy had let it drop. But something chewed at her. It was a feeling she hadn't been able to shake for a whole year... That, for some reason... she wasn't in her right place. She wasn't... herself.  
  
"Mac?"  
  
"Eh?" He said, impatient to be out the day's work.  
  
"Do you ever wonder why I'm a servant?" Ilar said, her eyes distant. "I do. I wonder every night before I go to sleep... if this-" She guestured to the shabby room she occupied in the manor's north tower. "-is truly my life."  
  
Mac's eyes flamed for a moment, the green widening and even showing the small trademark glints of gold. "Listen to me, Ilar. If there ever be a place for you to live, it be here. I knows it."  
  
Ilar's eyes diminshed to shrewd slits, "You knows what?"  
  
MacRoy stood up, "Nothing other than Lady'll be callin' ye soon. Get your work clothes on."  
  
MacRoy exited to give Ilar some privacy as she slipped her damaged cottn work dress over her nightshift, which handily doubled as her petticoat. She pulled her hardy fingers through her hair with a mind of its own. No matter how she coaxed it, Lady would always complain "Your hair is looking a bit shabby today, Ilar."  
  
Ilar gave up on her tangled tresses ad simply tied them out of her face with a worn black ribbon. She slipped on her work shoes, another pair of slippers Ilar herself had made, except this pair was plainer. She left her special ones for her use only. She wasn't about to let complete strangers gawk at her treasures. Ilar quickly snatched up the faded creme apron and bolted out her room as the usual morning tinkling bells ran though the servant's quaters of HeartStread manor.   
  
Ilar opted to slide down the stair banister, nearly knocking over a snotty scullery maid. She slipped silently, red faced and puffing, into Lady's rooms. Lady sat at her vanity, in more ways than one, inspecting every crease and curve of her face. Her ice blue eyes caught Ilar in the mirror.  
  
"Ah, Ilar. I was wondering where you were. I will not be needingyou this morning, please, attend to Martrice, she is attending a royal banquet and is in need of a hair up do."  
  
Ilar bowed silently and slunk back into the hallway noiselessly. She marched the exact two steps it took to be at Martrice's room. She rapped on the door twice. She'd been told she knocked like a courtier, a loud "Let me in!" knock, not the usual timid "May I intrude?" servant's knock.  
  
"Enter." Came the raspy voice.  
  
Ilar entered and let the door click quietly behind her. She froze at the sight of Mattie lying in bed, her face a pale green color, and a bucket of festering vomit next to her. Ilar caught her breath, not realy one to be given to nausea. She crossed to the bucket, swiftly scooped it up, and had it deposited out the window in the matter of time it took Ilar to cross the large bed chamber to Mattie, who was now shivering.  
  
"Good morning Mistress Maattie." Ilar said, trying to ignore the pungent remainging smell.  
  
"Go away. I don't want you in here, twit." Mattie groaned. "GET OUT!" She ended yelling. 


End file.
